


Deliverance

by Mallorn



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Krennic lives, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Krennic isn't very nice but you know you love it, Post-Rogue One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-15 19:55:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11813082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallorn/pseuds/Mallorn
Summary: Fate owes Director Orson Krennic a lot. The sole survivor of Scarif base, he has been deprived of many comforts, but this is about to change when your rescue team finds him.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Written because I just killed Krennic off in another story and owed him this.

This daydream always begins the same way.

You are on his lap, in some sort of meeting, but the others don’t seem to notice your presence. His arms circle your waist, gloved hands rest on your thighs, lightly, at ease. When he speaks, his voice is too loud in your ear, but there is another layer of meaning underneath the mundane words, a hum that is just for you, something only you can feel. His fingers tighten in agitation over something one of the others said and then, as you hold your breath with anticipation, you feel his hand slip between your thighs. He rubs you there, through your underwear – you are always wearing a skirt – and then…

And then you realise that it’s not his soft-looking black leather gloves you feel through the material of your clothes, but your coarse working gloves. Still, you press your knuckles against your core until it hurts and you have to let go of the illusion. You are not on Director Krennic’s lap, but in a shuttle on the way to Scarif base to search for survivors.

With the great losses suffered lately – there are rumours of two ISD’s with full crews in addition to the shield gate, the citadel tower and the entire security complex – personnel has become increasingly important. Every human soldier recovered is a gain to the Empire. To its credit accounts, some say. Cynicism is a known response to hopelessness. You refuse to be weak.

The estimated success rate of this mission is abysmal. Resources are thinly spread after the massive terrorist attack on the base and Grand Moff Tarkin has only reluctantly allowed you to bring a team to the surface. No pros can be spared for a low-priority location such as this. You might be a poor replacement for trained search-and-rescue specialists, but at least you are dedicated. Serving the Empire is all you know, all you are able to do. To serve well is an honour. You do have a personal motive as well, you admit to yourself as you absent-mindedly begin to stroke between your legs again.  The very reason you volunteered. Hope. Maybe someone – he – is still alive.

Another favourite fantasy is when you for some reason are leaning over an unspecified piece of furniture and he comes behind you. Sometimes he just grabs your ass as he passes by. Sometimes his hand follows the curve of your backside all the way down between your thighs. The touch is always brief, but oh so dirty. The best version is the one when he stays for a moment longer and lets you feel his hardness as he grinds against you from behind and pants into your ear.

Or, even just the sound of his voice, as he barks an order: “Open!” He’s only ever talked about the door, but in your thoughts he’s telling you to spread your legs for him.

The shuttle door slides open, spilling your makeshift rescue team onto the ground. There are three of you. Three! What good will that do in an ocean of destruction and with only eight standard hours to use? Pick-up is at sunset, or 1904 local time, the ruined area too dangerous to navigate in the dark.

You have dreaded this task, imagining having to wade in gore and rotting bodies, that is, unless you’d fall victim to a half ruined building caving in or an uprooted palm tree choosing to collapse just when you pass. Reality is somewhat different, but not less sinister. There are human remains aplenty, fallen Stormtroopers littering the sandy beaches, but little in the way of blood. One of the bodies seems to be moving, but when you come close enough, swallowing before attempting to remove the helmet, nothing is there. The armour is empty, moved only by a gust of wind. You and your comrades examine several ‘bodies’ after that, with the same result. All that remain are hollow plastoid husks.

Now you become more cautious. There is no telling whatever has – for lack of a better word – devoured the soldiers, and perhaps still remains in hiding somewhere, waiting for you to approach. At first, the mere thought nearly paralyzes you all with fright, but as nothing happens, you satisfy yourself with the idea that the predators are no longer there, a threat only in your mind. The demolished citadel poses a very real threat. Large parts of the former tower have been pulverized, reduced to drifts of sand of different colours and composition. The rubble remaining hangs by a single thread.

You soon finds the beacon that drew you here, but there is no sign of whoever fixed it. As the hours go by, you are more and more inclined to chalk it up to malfunction, yet the tech in your team insists the most logical reason for it to suddenly start transmitting more than two standard weeks after the attack is that someone was here to turn it on. They may no longer be alive.

With no means of long-distance communication, you’re supposed to stay together. This order is broken by unanimous decision. You split up and go in opposite directions, to cover as large an area as you can.

Your eyes scan the ground, both hoping for and dreading finding him. Ever since you learned about Director Krennic being among the missing you’ve been so sure that he’d be alive. Impulsive, bold and easily angered he was a major reason for your work on the battle station being bearable. A super weapon could only excite you for so long, and merely glancing at the charismatic director has been enough your spirits for days. Not that you had any hopes of him noticing you, but it was nice to look. And to dream a little.

Dreams are all that remain of him now. No more swishing cape, devious smile or calculating glances. The fruitless search for survivors on Scarif will soon be over.

And yet you cannot give up. Again you scan the rubble for a possible entrance to the sublevel floors, where the shelters ought to be located. Only thirty minutes remain until pick-up. And there it is! The half-hidden stairs you have been looking for, and they look intact! Below is a narrow, dark corridor, and then, a row of rooms, a sliver of light escaping from one of them. Pulling you towards it like a beacon.

***

Krennic is alive and, reasonably, well. It has almost been too easy. After the carrion birds – he prefers not to think about them – and the crabs – surprisingly tasty once he made the decision not to think about their recent meals –, the only threat has been the one to his sanity. Once he managed to drag himself into the turbolift and burrow down here, he’s had bacta and supplies to last him a lifetime. Boredom grates on him, but it is still a life.

Scarif was so beautiful before the disaster. Contrary to the worlds whose rape he orchestrated for the good of his project, this devastation is only Tarkin’s doing. This world is beautiful still in a sense, or could be. Perhaps he ought to erect a residence here, the chaos begging for organisation.. A base, Scarif can no longer be, but a resort? It is an idea to save for later, after he is done with Tarkin.

Now, he has more pressing matters at hand, a little lieutenant to catch. How come this particular girl – woman, they all prefer to be called, but they are girls to him anyway regardless of years – how did she catch his eye? She is a curiosity. For all the time he has observed her, she has appeared flawless. Loyal, diligent, quick to follow orders, adept at relaying them to her junior colleagues. Yet, to remain a lieutenant at her age! This has to be the result of some flaw, either a misstep that proved dire, or a sin of omission still remaining to be found out. Either way he can exploit it, not in any sinister way, of course, merely as leverage. Perhaps her modest career is just due to a lack of ambition. He can work with that, too. And now, it seems fate has offered him an opportunity for a first _taste_.

He ventures a hidden glance, watching her standing in the doorway, appraising him.

***

The view you are treated to once you enter the room feels unreal, there is no other way to describe it. There he sits on a crate, calmly polishing his sidearm, not even looking up as you enter. His once pristine uniform is tattered and dirty, his hair plastered against his forehead, but otherwise the handsome director appears no worse for wear. If anything he looks leaner… hungrier.

There is a bottle of wine on the makeshift table, a half-filled cup beside it. He has the look of a man engrossed in something he enjoys doing, with not a thought to spare for the outside world. It is wonderful, and shocking and… you need to speak to him, this is your chance to address him, but what do you say to make it feel natural? You need to say it, now.

”Director Krennic, sir, you’re alive!” You wince. Of all the things to say, you must state the obvious and appear a fool.

”What did you expect?” A haughty glance, a lifted eyebrow. “There are supplies in these places, after all. I designed this base.”

Oh. Of course. ”Sir, you’re about to be rescued.” Another bright comment, and if that wasn’t enough, your cheeks are beginning to heat as well.

”That’s about time. How long until we’ll be picked up?”

You consult your chrono. ”Fifteen minutes, sir. You’re lucky, we were so close to giving up.”

”That’ll have to do then. Move.”

You make for the doorway, but before you can reach it, he slams into you from behind, pressing you up against the wall, one hand holding your wrists above your head in a firm grip. He is so much stronger than you, his body flush against yours, yet you are surprised more than upset.

”Director? What – ”

”I haven’t had a woman in a standard month!” His other hand is making fast progress with your trousers, and his own. You feel annoyed, not threatened. And your body is already warming up to the idea of relieving tension. But this is not going to happen.

”I’m sure something can be arranged as soon as we get you off the planet.” You finally find your calm, professional voice. Apparently, under duress, training still kicks in. Good to know.

”I’m not taking any chances.”

”I’m not going to let you – ” A moan escapes your lips as he begins to rub your clit. So much for professionalism.

”What,” he growls.

”… not let you… ah… like this.”

”Insincerity is such a flaw of character,” he hisses, grinding against your bottom. “Don’t be so modest now. You’re wet enough. And I’ve seen how you look at me. In the office as well as here.”

“I haven’t!” Of course you have.

“I have never needed to resort to coercion.” The callousness in his voice annoys you.

“No, your coaxing appears forceful enough, Director.”

His grip tightens. Good. He’s angry. Loud breathing and then your wrists are suddenly free.

“You are free to leave, Lieutenant.” His weight against your back says otherwise. You would rather listen to his body, and yours. “But you should know this,” his voice continues, “I can be very generous to those who do me favours.” Honey drips from his lips, yet you barely register his words above the beating of your heart. “It’s very simple,” he goes on, softly yet with an edge of command that appeals to countless hours of training to hear and react to that tone. “All you need to do is lower your hands, and when I back off, you follow me. Then, just bend forward and let me… fuck you.” His voice is down to a whisper, yet it thrums loudly through your body, and you know that you want it, not just to follow an order, but because there’s so much unfulfilled want in you, so much desire, and need.

Slowly, your hands glide down the wall on either side of your head, stopping at shoulder height. The pressure against your backside is gone. You shuffle away from the wall until you feel him again. Naked flesh against yours.

“Good,” he coos, the light pressure between your shoulders pushing you forward. “Almost there.” His words are jagged around the edges now, less polished. Hands around your waist positions you, then one slides to your hip. Fingertips graze your wetness and it’s so much better than in the dreams, even this hurried probing, just in-and-out.

The bluntness that presses into you next is thicker, filling you slowly at first, then, sure of the aim, slides in to the hilt with confidence. It is… it is so good, so perfect, and you want it there, inside, now. You feel how he pulls almost all the way out, then pushes in again with a loud grunt. Slow withdrawal again, fast thrust, grunt. Repeated over and over and you mewl and whine and he chuckles rather arrogantly and it’s infuriating but feels so very good.

“Enjoying yourself, Lieutenant?”

 “Sir!” You hate sounding so obviously horny and desperate, yet you eagerly arch your back. You feel pinned in place, and his grunting with every quick stab of his cock... how he wants – needs – you – it- and how you had wanted him and not  and now... ah – wantwantwant – this glorious friction and the slick sounds and sweet sweet pressure building inside...

You’re only half-way there when he spills with a loud groan.

If he notices, he makes no sign of it. To his defence, time is scarce and he does bow rather gentlemanly as he gestures towards the door.

This time, you walk out unhindered, head held high.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Krennic takes a chance, and gets lucky again;-)

A decent fuck, she was, and yet it isn’t enough. Never has been. He, a healthy male in his prime with a strong libido, needs to blow off some steam more often than recent circumstances have allowed, and it is only natural that he wants more.

Still panting, he follows her, scrambling to put his sidearm in place and fasten his trousers at the same time. Good he has excellent capacity for simultaneous actions. The limited time was actually good, too. There was no way he would have lasted more than two minutes inside her, not with how she clenched around him from the start. The wiggling and moaning did their part as well. And she was so wet, despite her protests. He straightens his trousers. These blasted things feel too tight already!

On a whim, he steps a little too hard on a plank, feeling it break under him and then, a sharp pain.

He winces, as much with the pain as because of the uninterrupted sound of her receding footsteps. Perhaps this is too much, but then, he deserves a bit of leeway, having been out of luck for so long. Fate owes Orson Krennic a lot.

***

Only when you go up the stairs you notice that Krennic is missing.

“Hurry up,” you shout towards the corridor, then stick your head up to see if the shuttle has arrived. It is just coming in to land, and there is no sight of the darn man. One would have thought he’d be grateful and eager to follow your lead. Particularly after the liberties you just allowed him. A drip of his come trickles down your thigh and you press the fabric of your trousers against it to stop the itching.  “Director Krennic,” you call again. “Sir?”

A pitiful whimper is heard from below, and you rush back into the corridor. There he is, sitting on the floor, cradling his ankle. He looks at once hopeful and guilty.

“What happened? Sir, we must leave, now!”

“I... I can’t,” he says, voice full of remorse. “I can’t support myself on my foot.”

There is no time. “I’ll fetch help,” you throw at him and leave, running. It’s 1900 already and the sun is near sinking into the sea. You navigate through the rubble as fast as you can and then just run towards the shuttle. By the time you reach it, it’s already powering up to lift.

“Get in,” the pilot shouts above the noise.

“I… I’ve found him,” you pant. “Needs help. Can’t walk. Fine otherwise.”

“You either get in now, or remain here until dawn with whomever it is you found. Or we’ll all be staying, and you’ll be the one to answer to the Grand Moff.”

“I’ll stay.” There is no choice, really. Facing the Grand Moff’s wrath is everyone’s nightmare, and you couldn’t leave an injured colleague just like that. Not even, or certainly not, Director Krennic.

The prospect of spending the night in the shelter is equally frightening and appealing. You will not allow him to touch you again. Unless… he promises to take his time. Then, you’d definitely be interested. Not that the surroundings are particularly romantic. And who’s to say he’ll be interested anyway, once the brunt of his desire has been taken care of?

By the time you return, he’s managed to drag himself back into the room and is sitting on the crate with his bad foot up on the makeshift table. He winces when you cross the threshold, but for all you know it might be from the quality of the wine as much as any pain. The Director certainly doesn’t have the look of someone who just blew up his chances of a swift return to the civilization.

“Well?” he says with a lifted eyebrow.

“They’ll be back for us in the morning. Sir,” you add reluctantly.

“The Imperial machine is still running as efficiently as always. Good.” He doesn’t appear overly concerned with the situation and it makes you so mad.

“Is this why you tripped,” you spit, “because of imbibing? Have you drunk yourself into being incapable of even walking?”

“I am capable of many things, as you may have noted, Lieutenant.” His smirk is infuriating. “Besides,” he continues, “I’m celebrating. Despite my reputation of occasionally indulging, this has not been the case lately. Only when I spotted your shuttle was I willing to take the risk. Now, it dulls the pain.”

You brush the pang of guilt aside. You’re not quite done with him yet. “You still chose to hide in here, rather than to rush out when you heard us coming in. This doesn’t strike me as a sound strategy.”

“Come on, I have some dignity.”

“I almost didn’t find you in time.”

“I would have made sure _you_ did.” He calmly lifts the mug to his lips and takes a heavy sip, gulping the drink down as if it were water.

“I? Sir?” You eye him with suspicion.

“Of course, Lieutenant. I decided that particular scenario would allow for the most desirable course of events.” He rakes his gaze over your body, then lifts his mug in some kind of toast. To his own fortune, apparently, not yours.

It hurts your pride to admit you did enjoy the quick fuck, and even more to realize that your treacherous body wouldn’t mind a repeat performance.

“Did you orchestrate this delay as well?” You surely wouldn’t put it past him now.

“Me? You hurt me, Lieutenant. This is but an unfortunate coincidence.” He lowers both feet to the floor. “Now, I need to get out of these boots before the swelling gets worse. Would you assist me?”

“Of course, sir.” His natural voice of command has you kneeling by his side in seconds, yet you prefer to chalk it up to compassion. You never could decline helping the weaker, not that the Director is exactly weak, but he is injured. Even though it might not be as grievously as you believed at first.

***

Seeing her on her knees between his legs makes him hard again, even if she’s only there to perform a mundane task. Her hands are strong and efficient in their work, but surprisingly gentle for how put off she seemed at first.

“Should I remove the sock as well, sir?” She is, apparently, both respectful and attentive. Very nice.

“Go ahead.” The swelling isn’t pretty, but it has already served him well. Her cool hands on the heated skin are a welcome relief.

“Does it hurt when I touch it like this?” She looks concerned as she lightly runs her fingers over his ankle.

“A little. Perhaps you could kiss it better?” He winks in an exaggerated manner. It is a joke, and not. Suddenly, feather light lips graze the skin, and then she lifts her gaze again. Her eyes are large, expressive. She is waiting for something… approval? He touches her cheek with all intimacy he can muster, registering with satisfaction how she leans in to him. “Very good,” he says softly, consciously dropping the title. “Come here.”

“Sir?” She does rise when he takes her hand, and then she’s sitting sideways on his lap. If she feels his arousal, she shows no sign of it.

He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, then cups her soft cheek again and leans in for a kiss. He makes an effort to be gentle, to give her only as much as she’s ready for. No tongue. No teeth. Softly, nice and slow.

Oops. He didn’t expect her to catch on so fast, and now she’s practically grinding against him at the same time as she’s trying to pry his mouth open with that pretty pink tongue of hers. No bucking up against her, not yet. Perhaps it’s time for a little distance.

“So eager, Lieutenant?” She blushes, a flash of guilt in her eyes, but only for a second. Then she’s grinding down again. Ah.  “One can almost come to believe you’re not as professional as you appeared at the station,” he tells her, hands sliding to her hips. “Have I perhaps wasted time, when I could in fact have had you months ago?” He leans close to her ear and lowers his voice to a whisper. “Are you a slut, Lieutenant?”

She actually _moans_.

“Are you?” He wants to hear her say it, admit it to herself.

“Only for you, Director.”

He smiles. “How fortunate I am. I should still have done this a lot earlier.”

She lowers her gaze, looking to the side and then whispers, blushing again. “You could have, had I just known.”

Such a sweet confession. Perhaps it’s time for one of his own. “I was overly hasty earlier,” he says, meeting her gaze when she looks up. “Now, I plan to take my time.”

“Please do.” Her reply is breathless, she’s so very ready. Needy. He wants to take her right there, but he will wait. Nice and slow. Bind her harder to him, for what reason he has yet to discover.

***

What is he waiting for? You are soaking through your panties, and he displays a magnificent bulge in his trousers. You lower your hands to his belt, then pause. His rank insignia stand out, even against the stained fabric. You were about to invade the personal space of a far superior officer without express permission. Even in this situation, that is unthinkable. You swallow, then take a deep breath. “Sir,” you say as steadily as you can, “may I?”

If anything, he looks amused. “Permission granted.”

His belt opens without difficulty; he catches the blaster and puts it on the table. Then, tunic. Unzipping it sends a thrill of excitement through you, a feeling of doing something forbidden. It spills open to reveal his toned chest, and when he shrugs out of it you see the recently healed scar on his shoulder.

“Kiss that better, too,” he suggests.

“You were shot?”

“Work hazard. Now, I believe you were given an order, Lieutenant.”

“Of course, sir.” You can’t figure him out; it’s impossible to say when he’s being serious and when he’s just teasing you. The angry red skin is uneven under your lips, begging to be examined by your tongue.

“My turn.” At last, he’s not so subtle. He has your belt and tunic open in seconds, and then, suddenly, his lips are on your nipple and you’re unable to touch him, arms caught in your half pulled off tunic. “Mmm,” he moans, sucking hard, making you whimper in turn.  

“Get… this… thing… off of me,” you hiss, struggling to free yourself. “Sir!”

“Oh.” His gaze is one of pure astonishment. “Let me assist you.” As if it wasn’t he who put you in this situation to begin with. But the result is achieved, the tunic is off, and when you kiss, your nipples brush wonderfully against his chest, and his hands stroke your sides, lingering on your breasts.

“Sir,” you say when you break the kiss. “Do you have a bed?” He more or less promised to take it slowly, and even if pace is losing its significance, a little more comfort would be preferable. Even if just the table would be an improvement.

“These are active-service conditions,” he says.

“Active-service conditions,” you repeat. You are both soldiers, you will make do with what is available. An actual bed would be too much to ask for, but he must have slept somewhere.

“There are blankets in the last room to the right. Bring them.”

It feels odd to walk about topless while still wearing trousers and boots, but the Director’s appreciating glances makes it decidedly less awkward. The blankets are easy enough to find, an entire nest of them, for lack of a better word. This room feels more lived-in, with makeshift furniture, food supplies and various items. This is his lair, the room you found him clearly only the carefully staged setting in which he chose to be discovered.

“There aren’t any sheets,” he says as you arrange the blankets in the corner closest to the door. You have to go several times, there are many.

“Active-service conditions, sir,” you reply briskly. “We’ll make do.” You look around for anything else to use, something that would be more comfortable against naked skin, seeing how you expect to very soon be on your back. Your gaze falls on the white fabric draped over another crate.

“Go ahead,” he says, apparently noticing. “It’s ruined anyway, a few more stains will make no difference.” You realise as you take it that it’s his famous cape. No longer pristine, it still feels luxurious and it’s wide enough to cover most of the makeshift bed.

That done, you begin to feel anxious. What now? Should you undress completely, or will he want to do it, or maybe he isn’t even in the mood now? Perhaps you should try to clean up instead, if the ocean is safe to use? But then, he can’t go outside, so that would put him at a disadvantage. You don’t want to ruin this. You feel how your teeth go to your lip.

“Having second thoughts?” His voice is mildly concerned.

“No. No, sir, I just…”

“Come here,” he coos.

With his arms around your waist and his nose nestled between your breasts there is no doubt. You pull off your boots and all the rest, and then he rises from the crate and his interest is very, very evident.

***

He supports himself against the table as he stands, briefly contemplating his next action. Will she be put off by seeing him limp undignified to the makeshift bed, or will it fuel her compassion?

“Can I help you, sir?” She sounds anxious. The latter then.

“That would be kind of you.” He smiles. There are worse things than being helped into bed by a naked woman you hope to get to fuck within the next couple of minutes. “Just let me get rid of these.” He divests quickly and hobbles to the makeshift bed, then lowers himself with her help.

He lies on his side, propped up on his elbow as he watches her undress. Her body jiggles, full of promise, and he dares a quick stroke to his shaft as she bends over to remove her boots. The sight! Her nether lips, pink and swollen, call to him, and when she finally lies down beside him, he has to bite his tongue, hard, as a reminder. Nice and slow.

She shivers delightfully under his touch; simply running a fingertip along her inner thigh makes her elicit a soft sigh. He does it again, continuing higher, but evading her mound. She shivers again, and now he just has to dive in.

She tastes of salt and woman. All soft and warm and slick. He laps at her, sliding his tongue between her folds as he holds her open. His nose bumps against her clit and she _moans_.

“You want me there, do you?” Of course she does, he just enjoys teasing.

“Mm-hmm.”

He darts his tongue out, stroking over her, just once.

“Again.”

I don’t think so. “Did you say something?” He holds her down firmly. There will be no bucking, no crushing his face. Watching her try is quite fascinating. And she does know better than to tug at his hair.

“More! Please! Sir!”

He smirks, and rewards her with the pressure of his tongue.

He sucks her nub into his mouth and gently plies it with his tongue, at the same time as he slides a finger into her, pushing it in and out. Her first climax is powerful and he lets her ride it out, stilling himself until she asks for more.

“Thank you,” she gasps when he gives her his tongue again. “Thank… you… s... sir!”

“I have starved a long time,” he tells her. “You are a delicacy.” She moans at that, then her hands gently pull at his.

“How… how’s your foot?”

“The opportunity to do this makes it worth it,” he drawls, as he pushes his fingers into her repeatedly and watches her eyes glaze over again. So responsive. “So much better than spending my first night as a rescued man alone.”

He sees the shift in her eyes as the implication dawns upon her. “You injured your foot on purpose. You lying, manipulative…beast!” She sounds angry enough, but it’s an impotent, endearing rage. Like a young tooka. And she continues to ride his fingers.

“Beast?” That is something new. Of all the things she could call him, she chose that particular epithet. “Perhaps I should mount you like one?”

Apparently, she takes that like an order – she turns onto her belly the moment he pulls out his digits. Or, she’s desperate enough to do anything. Regardless, he’s not going to complain. Not when she spreads her thighs so invitingly, and even more when he pushes his fingers into her again. Three, this time, and she takes them eagerly. Her ass wiggles and he lands a slap onto her left bottom cheek. She stills for a moment, then starts grinding down again. Another slap and she’s blushing a shade deeper.

“I suspect you, in fact, like it a bit rough.” He waits for her response. There it is, a muffled, angry sound. “I think you do.” He fingers her harder now, his digits pounding into her frantically, meeting no resistance whatsoever. “Do you,” he hisses into her ear. “Answer me… slut.” Her angry moan is confirmation enough. And the way she lifts her hips, so very slightly, and so obviously. Perhaps she isn’t even aware of it. “Answer me properly,” he whispers. “Or there will be _consequences_.” He withdraws his hand and fists the other in her hair.

The answer comes within seconds, a throaty moan rather than a reluctant protest. Very interesting.

“Say it,” he warns, tugging at her hair.”

“Yes. Yes! Sir!”

“And,” he continues silkily, “is there anything you want?”

“F…fuck me… now.”

“Look at me when you beg.” It is a risk, but oh how it pays off. Her large, innocent eyes dark with lust, for him.

“Please, sir,” she whispers, blushing even more. “Pleeeaaase.” This is almost as good as actually taking her. How long can he pull it off while still keeping her on the edge?

He watches in fascination how she lifts her ass into the air, her body practically begging for him.

She is ripe, oh so very ready for his cock. He takes his place behind her, nudging her knees further apart with his own. He pokes at her, watches how the blunt tip glides along her folds, nudging its way nearer its aim, her voice further evidence of how much she wants it inside, now. A miniscule canting of his hips is all it takes.

Fucking her is exquisite. He doesn’t bother holding back any longer, she so obviously doesn’t care how she gets it, as long as it’s now. It suits him perfectly, to thrust and thrust and thrust mindlessly, hard, deep, pounding – them – both – clo – oh – ser – …– … –

***

The sharp white light of your climax scatters at the sound of his groan. He’s so _loud_ , pants and groans and almost sobs, as if it’s too good to bear. All because of you. And it’s not a dream, but sticky, sweaty reality. The silly sound that comes from your nether lips as he pulls out doesn’t matter, not when he looks so satisfied as he flings himself onto his back beside you with another groan. Happy, sated, just like you feel.

The blankets are filthy, the cellar damp and the stale air would be off-putting if you weren’t used to it after so many hours. It is decidedly un-romantic. And yet it, this, he, fills you with a giddy warmth. You curl up close to him, careful not to touch his bad foot. Now, it’s almost cute that he chose to do that so he could be with you longer. Even if he was just after the sex. His arm comes around you and you edge closer, until your arm rests around his waist and your head on his shoulder. You quench the impulse to kiss him.

This is food for so many new daydreams…

***

The overwhelming sentiment as he lies there spent with her sleeping on his arm is that he _deserves_ to have this. He, Orson Callan Krennic, is worthy of the finest treatment current circumstances have to offer. He isn’t asking much, really. Decent food and drink, a roof over his head, a willing body in his bed. A willing woman, he corrects himself. He is, evidently, growing soft, a not altogether unpleasant feeling.

In time, he might even allow himself to be domesticated. The idea of _permanence_ still repels him with its threat of eventual failure to keep a partner’s interest, but he is beginning to see the advantages. Perhaps he ought to devise a strategy for his personal life as well, involving a residence and a companion. The present, temporary, one is respectful, but not spineless. Her company is surprisingly tolerable.

He plans to lie low for a start, lick his wounds and bide his time. And then, he’ll be back in the game. This time he will win all that should rightfully be his. The Scarif disaster is evidence of his weapon’s efficiency. This should gain him a promotion, and perchance he will be asked to head some new, even greater project the Emperor has planned. He will be noticed and rewarded as is his due.

***

They carry Director Krennic to the shuttle on a stretcher. He looks sufficiently crushed, suffering even, his jaw set as if biting back pain. A manly grunt slips from him once he’s being loaded onto the craft, then he demands to have a seat. Yours, apparently. Then a blanket. And you on his lap, underneath the blanket. You cast an unsure glance at your superior. “Play along,” she mouths. So true. You’re not to upset disaster victims.

Gloved fingers slide down between your thighs and rub until you squirm. The others politely look away. “Open,” he breathes into your ear and you shift, leaning back against him, masking a sigh of pleasure as one of resignation. It is almost as in the dream.

“One more thing,” he says loudly, “I want this officer here in charge of my rehabilitation.”

“Of course, sir,” your superior agrees.

The Director grins, then whispers into your ear. ”Remember, I will require significant periods of bed-rest, under constant _observation_. What’s your name, Lieutenant?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
>  
> 
> [My Tumblr](https://perfecttimemachinestranger.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> I finally decided to quit angsting over the imperfection of this fic and simply post it. Thanks for reading!   
> Part 2 will be up around the 25th.


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